


Fruitful Promises

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa's engagement to Joffrey Lannister may have been broken, but the Lions of Casterly Rock are not done with her yet. Unless, of course, Petyr Baelish's own plans are able to take root...</p>
<p>{GoT/ASoIaF AU, exploring the Hades/Persephone trope as it relates to Petyr/Sansa}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the moneymakers.

 

 

_I can’t dance, I can’t sing // I’m just standing here selling // Oh and checkin’ everything is in place // You never know who’s looking on_

 

* * *

 

The chambers of the Hand are stuffy in the afternoon heat; the air outside the Red Keep is stagnant, offering no breeze to soothe the council members slogging through the lingering scraps of royal business. Grand Maester Pycelle puffs in his seat, even though he has not moved for the greater part of three hours; Varys is soaked through with sweat, red-faced and slumping. Even the queen mother looks the part of a wilting flower, her braids drooping gracelessly in the humidity. By contrast, Littlefinger and Lord Tywin appear unperturbed by the climate, the only evidence of the sweltering temperatures a faint sheen of perspiration clinging to their hairlines. King Joffrey is, unsurprisingly, absent from the proceedings.

“Well my lords, I believe that will be all for today,” Tywin concludes, “So unless there is some matter that has escaped my attention—“

“Actually, m’lord, if I may take just a moment of the council’s time?” Littlefinger interjects smoothly, quirking a chestnut brow. Varys and Pycelle visibly deflate at the delay, but Tywin nods imperiously to the Master of Coin. “Now that the Lady Sansa is, justifiably of course, no longer betrothed to the young king, I thought we should, perhaps, address the question of a new match for the girl?”

“And just _who_ did you have in mind, Lord Baelish?” wheezes Pycelle, swaying slightly in his seat.

Littlefinger sets his quill on the tabletop and reclines in his seat, bracing his hands on the armrests of his chair. “We must admit, the girl is practically useless now. Her family all dead, or as good as, the Northern resistance scattering…as a bargaining chip, her value has plummeted since the Lord Hand’s plot at the Twins. Best to shuffle her off into some minor house, insure the dilution of the Stark bloodline and divorce any heirs from the ambition of truly highborn children….”

“It sounds as if you are describing a man not unlike yourself, Lord Baelish,” Cersei spits out from beside her father.

Littlefinger smirks. “Well, I certainly fit the bill, your grace. Not that I would presume to-“ “To what? Plot against the interests of your king and his family? She is still useful to us without your interference; removing her from our sight would be more dangerous than anything,” Cersei pressed on venomously. “Better married to a _Lannister_ , and risk quelling the anger of any _highborn_ offspring than ship her off beyond our reach!” she exclaimed, eyes flaming. “By the gods, it is graspers like you, sly snakes that slither about the boots of the greater houses- !” She had started to rise out of her seat in her excitement, leaning across the table towards Baelish.

“ _Enough_. Cersei. You have clearly let this heat go to your head; I think you would be more comfortable in the shade of your rooms.” Tywin’s dismissal could not have been more pointed, or humiliating. His daughter, to her credit, slides out of the chamber with chin aloft and nary a backwards glance.

Sighing, Tywin returns his gaze to the table, finally settling on Baelish’s cool green eyes. “Her temper may be misplaced, but the opinion is not, Lord Baelish. Whatever use you may envision for the young Lady Stark is secondary, at best, to the interests of the crown. She will remain unclaimed, for now, but you have brought an important question to light. The issue of her match will be addressed soon, and in a manner that will benefit the king and his realm.” The hardness in his eyes brooked no arguments; Baelish nods curtly before looking down to the wooden table, defeated. “That will be all my lords, until the morrow.”

And with that, the meeting disbands. Pycelle limps off in search of refreshment and a breeze, Varys scuttles back to the cool darkness of his spider’s web, and Baelish strides slowly back to his tower, keeping to the shade when the broad hallways forced his path outdoors.

 

* * *

 

_A bold move, but will they respond in kind?_ Petyr sits perched on his solar’s windowsill high above the gardens and, further out, harbors of King’s Landing. _The pieces are arranged, with all their moves carefully telegraphed, but the timing…_ He harrumphs to himself. Leaving something to chance was not a regular habit of Baelish’s. _The timing is everything now. Play your part Petyr, stay in the shadows, and let the plan unfold. You are almost-_ A shadow far below him in the arbor shifts, expands, shimmers under the late afternoon sun, pulling him from the reverie. _Fools. Such a day for botanical delights, indeed._ Then, an auburn flame of hair emerges from behind a trellis, making Petyr exhale long and low, resting his chin on his chest.

_Her_.

Accompanied by a handmaid, Sansa glides through the arboretum as if on the crest of a wave. The girl with her puffs and wipes at her brow, but the young Lady appears unruffled by the pressing warmth. _So strange for a northern girl. Clearly sculpted from more than ice._ The maid reaches towards Sansa, appears to plead with her; unmoved, she shoos the girl off to the shade of the Keep’s walkway. Alone now, she extracts a silvery handkerchief from her pockets and dabs at her face. Petyr’s eyes trace her every movement: pocketing the kerchief, pacing idly down the path, bending to admire an aubergine blossom curling out of the ground.

_Such beauty._ As Sansa wound her way towards the shelter of the castle walls she pauses for a moment, alert. Reflexively, Petyr slips down from the sill and withdraws into the shadows of the solar; another pause, and the young Stark has vanished onto the concourse below. Releasing a shuddering breath, Baelish delicately latches the window screens before him. As he turns to his desk he feels his clothes slip and slide along his skin; he is drenched in sweat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of the moneymakers.

 

 

 

_The future is but a question mark // Hangs above my head // There in the dark_

 

* * *

 

Tyrion was panting when he reached the door to his father’s chambers in the Tower of the Hand; between the lingering heat, the extravagant number of steps, and his stunted legs, the trip was an arduous one. Nodding to the guards as he crossed the threshold, he hesitated when Lord Tywin was not seated at the long meeting table of the small council.

“Ah, you’ve made it,” the Hand’s guttural voice rasped from the far side of the solar, where he is ensconced at a smaller, but not unimpressive desk. “Sit.”

“A pleasure to see you as well, father,” the dwarf said with an indulgent tone. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this summons? It certainly can’t be family business, as Cersei is nowhere to be found.” He craned his neck around the chair, performing a mocking search of the tower.

A serving boy approached the two men with a pitcher of wine, but Tywin waved him off; Tyrion harrumphed audibly at the dismissal, but his father was of one mind. “Family business it is, but some that may be initiated without the queen regent. She will hear of it in due time.” Tyrion tilted his head in interest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead; _family_ was a proud notion for his father, excluding a Lannister from discussions that could impact them all was uncharacteristic in the extreme. “Well. My interest in the matter is certainly piqued. What I may be able to do for the family that Cersei cannot-“

“You will be marrying the Stark girl. The sooner, the better.” Tywin’s face remained hard, impassive, but Tyrion’s swiveled incredulously. “Marry the- father, she has just been freed from her engagement to your _grandson_! She is only a _child_ , I will not do it. Surely there are other-”

“You _will_ marry her, and you will marry her _quickly_ ,” Tywin countered. “The subject of her availability has already been broached in small council, and I will not deign to have a grasper like Baelish sink his talons into the best claim to the North in all of Westeros. Not when I have an eligible son of my own to offer up.” He spoke lowly and with urgency, but Tyrion caught every word, hanging on one in particular.

“ _Baelish_?” A smirk wound its way across Tywin’s lips at his son’s incredulity. “I can’t believe Littlefinger would have the gall to propose himself as a match for the girl.”

“Well you best had, because that is precisely what he did, without so many words.” Tyrion’s eyes widened further. “Quite unlike the man to play such an obvious game, which is why we must move quickly before he can regroup.”

Tyrion let loose a bark of a laugh. “Regroup? Initiate the second part of his scheme, more like.”

“So. You see the gravity of the situation we are facing.” At Tyrion’s grimace, the Hand pressed on. “You _will_ marry her, for the good of the family and the realm.” A slow smile settled on Tywin’s face. “And for the added pleasure of irking that loathsome bird to the seven hells and back.”

“And who shall be speaking to Lady Sansa of these new…arrangements?” Tyrion spoke lightly, but his brows contracted with the inquiry. “I believe the news would be best delivered by her betrothed, don’t you?” Before the dwarf could stammer an objection, Tywin cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Now go. I have other matters to attend to beyond your wedding.”

Tyrion’s mind was wheeling as he trudged to the door. A storm of change had swept any coherent thoughts from his head, and now he was charged with setting the same gale winds on the poor girl who would have been queen. So deep in his thoughts was he that the dwarf spared not a glance for the serving boy lingering on the landing outside the Hand’s solar.

 

* * *

 

After nearly an hour of winding through the halls and garden pathways of the Red Keep, Petyr’s path finally brought him to the young Lady Stark in a shaded corner of the Godswood. He paused, admiring how the dappled sunlight fell on her silhouette. A breeze whispered through the grove, carrying a single red leaf to rest on her shoulder and mingle with the fire of her hair; when she looked askance to brush it away, Sansa caught sight of him and offered a tentative smile.

“Lord Baelish. I was unaware you spoke to the old gods,” she murmured by way of greeting.

A smirk playing across his face, Petyr advanced lazily into the holy copse. “I keep my own counsel, m’lady. I asked for the gods’ grace, once, and I regret to say my plea went unanswered. Or unfulfilled, at least.” He paused at the empty expanse of stone beside her, brows raised in a silent question; at Sansa’s gentle nod, Petyr sat beside her and straightened his long tunic, hands brought to rest on his thighs.

“I do, however, find the trees of the old gods a pleasant refuge in the Keep. Few southroners have reason to supplicate themselves here.” He gave her a long look and watched a ripple of comprehension pass over her face. “I can appreciate such a need. For refuge, my lord. Even Shae respects my need to be alone…here.” Sansa met his gaze with a cool look of her own before looking up into the crimson spattered branches of the weirwood.

Smirk evolved into smile and Petyr’s eyes softened. _Clever girl. Cleverer than I had hoped._ “It is astonishing how, even in quiet places such as this, news of the most stimulating kind might reach curious ears.” Her expression remained unchanged and pensive, but one glance at Sansa’s chest showed him she had stopped breathing. “News, say, of an engagement. Between a muzzled wolf…and the littlest Lannister.”

Petyr watched as her face contracted in agitation. “ _Tommen_?” she hissed, twisting to stare at a point on his hip, “He’s only a child, and an _absent_ child at that, surely-” Sansa broke off in shock as the magnitude of the proposal settled onto her, her eyes flicking up to the knowing look on Baelish’s face. “No.” It is more an exhalation than a declaration. But remarkably, she does not cry or crumple and he falls a little more in love at this. _Such strength. The only thing I cannot give you, but oh, how I can teach you to wield it…in time..._

Taking a deep breath, Petyr leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Sansa’s, which held her skirts in an iron grip. “Yes, my lady. But I am confident that you are not beyond helping, so it is not all ill news.”

“How?” One word contained a lifetime of hopes, and Baelish reveled in the power she relinquished with that single syllable. He encircled her wrists with his slim fingers, stroking at the pulse beneath her wrist tenderly. “In good time. A hasty wedding is no challenge, but a solution shall require more finesse than a ceremony. I promise you, my Lady Sansa, I will not witness you being given over to the imp.” _Hardly_. His mossy eyes were earnest and any trace of mockery wiped from Baelish’s face, and Sansa was ensnared by his words.

Sansa broke his light grip to clutch his hands with unexpected fierceness. “You are a _good friend_ , Lord Baelish.” Then, with as much swiftness, she withdrew to herself again. “For telling me such rumors. It is important that a lady knows what is being said of her.” Her perfect façade had returned, smooth and unblemished as glass; he would savor the day he made it shatter. His courtier’s smile returned then as well, bland and kind and false.

“Titles are nothing between good friends; to you, I am Petyr.” For a moment, his eyes glimmered.

“Petyr.” She tested the feel of it on her tongue. “And to you, I am indebted.”

Baelish rose and slipped his hand under one of her own, to place a light kiss on her knuckles. “We shall speak again soon, my lady.” “Sansa.” Her eyes are inscrutable. “ _Sansa_. Soon, you have my word.” With that final promise, Baelish took his leave of the holy place, leaving a firestorm of leaves in his wake, triumphant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the longest chapter, but one must get all the pieces into their proper places. Read and review! -grabby hands- Also, I've linked my Tumblrs in my AO3 profile, go check them out! (You may even find the link to my personal blog somewhere along the way...)


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